Hot Drinks For Cold Mornings
by LetThemRot
Summary: With the world falling apart around him, Sam's clinging to every scrap of sanity he can get his hands on.


Sam's always had a thing for Chai lattes, especially during the winter, when the wind is bitter and the roads icy. Dean, of course, favors the 'proper' cold-weather traditionals like hot chocolate and apple cider, and still gets a kick out of mocking Sam for his supposedly girly choice of drinks. Sam became immune to the teasing a long time ago. All that mattered was the warm styrofoam cup clasped in his hands, scents of cinnamon and nutmeg and orange zest filling the Impala. The taunts were secondary.

The old rules still apply, of course, but they've been bent a little by all that's happened. Between Bobby dying, the Leviathans rising, Castiel getting killed in the process of destroying the Leviathans, and the subsequent madness that comes from saving the world for the third time in as many years, the Winchesters are tired. So tired. Dean quits making fun of Sam's tea, and when Jody invites them into her new house for the holidays, they only have to look at each other once before saying yes.

There are so many holes in so many lives that need to be filled. Dead husbands, sons, fathers, and friends abound; weeping gashes in the fabric of families that time has not yet begun to heal.

So the Winchesters say yes and appear on Jody's doorstep just after sunset on Christmas Eve after three days spent rooting out a fairy, followed by a five hundred-mile drive. She halfheartedly scolds them for working at this time of year, then lets them in to feed them honey-baked ham and green beans and mashed potatoes with gravy, followed by a cherry pie that Dean eats half of. It's the first proper homemade meal that they've had in months. Sam builds a fire in the fireplace while Dean stuffs his face, and mentally flinches when he goes to grab the rock salt that isn't there. There is nothing to gank tonight.

As a thank-you for the food, they clean up the kitchen while Jody breaks out her small hoard of alcohol. The three of them then proceed to get… not wasted, just pleasantly drunk. Dean makes a comment about Sam not being man enough to handle a dry Manhattan. Sam – who knows that Dean has had a dry Manhattan exactly once in his life – ignores him.

The alcohol and mindless chatter flow until the clock strikes midnight. At that point, Jody gives both Winchesters a weary smile and says "you boys better get to bed if you want Santa to come."

They all laugh, and then Dean lurches to his feet with a slightly slurred proclamation of "dibs on the guest bed," because Jody only has two bedrooms and warned them before they even arrived that one of them was going to be sleeping on the couch. "I'm forty-two years old," she'd said. "You young'uns ain't kicking me out of my own bed."

Sam hardly cares; he's spent three nights this week sleeping sitting up in the Impala. Jody's couch is long and soft and heavenly by comparison – though Dean would punch him if he said so aloud. Instead, Sam lets himself roll back against the cushions and gives Dean a flippant wave. "Get outta my bedroom, then."

Dean snorts and mutters something indecipherable and trips twice on the stairs as he's climbing them.

Jody stays only a few moments longer, gathering up the last of the bottles and returning them to their shelves. She pauses on her way past and hands him a heavy wool blanket pulled from somewhere unknown. "You can lie down, you know."

"I know." And he will eventually. But right now he is warm and comfortable and slightly intoxicated, and Sam feels far too lazy to move. "Thanks again for having us. You didn't have to do that."

Her smile is soft and slightly pained. "Everyone should be with friends for the holidays." She pats him on the shoulder, then leans down to press a brief kiss to his forehead. "Sweet dreams, Sam."

The lights click off as she makes her way upstairs. Sam is alone with the dark.

He sighs just once; a heavy sound dragged all the way from the bottom of his lungs, and starts to shift onto his side. A sudden weight on one end of the couch stops him. Reaching out a careful hand, he finds a jacket-covered shoulder that hadn't been there a minute ago. It's smaller than it should be, but that hardly means anything. Lucifer's a clever bastard. Sam scowls. "What, you can't even take a break from tormenting me on Christmas?"

There's a sigh that mirrors his own from earlier. One quick snap of the fingers, and the nearest lamp flicks on, casting light over the face of an archangel… who is very much not Lucifer.

"Are you always this cranky when you're drunk?" Gabriel asks.

Somewhere in Sam's brain is an answer to that question. At the present time, however, he is incapable of locating said answer, because there's a dead archangel sitting in front of him. He swallows and blinks half a dozen times, but Gabriel does not flicker or morph into his brother.

"It's me, kiddo. The real McCoy. Back from the dead." One corner of Gabriel's mouth hooks into a smile. "You look like shit."

"Shut up," Sam mutters, and it's rude and undignified and he feels bad almost immediately, but Gabriel breaks into a full-throttle grin and wraps an arm around Sam's neck to hug him awkwardly on the couch.

He smells like Chai tea, mints, and chocolate, and Sam catches himself burying his nose in the archangel's hair, trying to immerse himself in the comforting scents. He pulls back, embarrassed, but Gabriel isn't, and instead tugs him down so that he's on his back, head pillowed on Gabriel's thigh, with the archangel's fingers threading through his hair.

When Sam eventually finds his voice, the first words out of his mouth are: "But you _were_ dead, weren't you?"

The light clicks off to hide Gabriel's expression. "Leave it for the morning, Sammy."

"But-"

"I'll still be here – I promise. And Lucy's not gonna get you tonight. Trickster's honor." There's a twist to those last two words – Gabriel's half-smile bleeds through into his voice. One of his hands slides down to cup Sam's face. "Go to sleep, kiddo."

Sam doesn't believe him for more than a second. But he closes his eyes and lets his head fall sideways, sucking in another breath of Chai and chocolate and comfort, and loosens his grip on consciousness.

He wakes up eight hours later to find Dean standing in the doorway with his jaw hanging open and coffee and bits of clay all over the floor.

Gabriel is still stroking Sam's hair, but he's watching Dean with a smirk and saying "problem, Winchester?" There's a styrofoam cup clasped in one of his hands, and Sam – for the first time in a _very_ long time – is glad that he listened to what an angel told him.


End file.
